


Watch, Learn, Fall

by isengard



Series: Graceland More Like Gayland [3]
Category: Graceland (TV)
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 18:59:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isengard/pseuds/isengard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike develops a conflict of interest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch, Learn, Fall

“You're _kidding_ me,” Mike laughs, letting his head drop back against the couch. “His grandma's basement. _Really_.”

Briggs laughs too, deep and mellow. “Should've heard him, man. _'Don't arrest in front'a my grams! She'll kill me, bro!'_ ” His eyes meet Mike's and he shakes his head. “We rolled up there expecting a goddamn cartel, and instead it's some dumb-shit twenty year old cooking up rocks in his grandma's house. Kids these days.”

“No shit.” Mike takes a sip of his beer, and then notices Briggs looking at him curiously. He flushes. “What?”

“How come you're asking about the Rosemead case? That was like, three years ago.”

Mike shrugs. “I read about it.” That's true, he read the case file this morning when it was sent over from Quantico with a label saying _Pending Investigation_. “Seemed like a weird one. I guess it just stuck with me.”

Briggs frowns and looks at his bottle, and Mike wonders if he just gave something away. It's insane, this mission he's been given. Briggs has been doing this for _years_ , he's the best of the best, and Mike's just a rookie who's barely made it through his first month in the field alive. A rookie who might not've made it at _all_ if it wasn't for dumb luck and the one-man task force that is Paul Briggs.

“It did get weird, near the end there,” Briggs says, brow still furrowed, eyes still cast down. His posture is relaxed, but the tendons on his hands flex with tension as he picks at the label on his bottle. He does this a lot, Mike's noticed, whenever they discuss the job, no matter how casually. “Got a lot of conflicting info from upstairs. I guess that wouldn't be in the file, though.”

Mike's reply dies in his throat when Briggs casts another furtive glance at him, lips curved in a tentative smile. It's not his normal full-on grin, all white teeth and dimples and crinkles around his eyes. There's something else behind it, a seriousness Mike's only seen once or twice, and always after they've just come out of heavy action. _Haunted_ , almost. He's seized by the desire to reach forward and touch Briggs' wrist, still his hand where its methodically shredding his beer label, get those eyes back on him and find out what that look _means_.

He settles for fidgeting and holding Briggs' gaze, waiting for that easy warmth to seep back into his expression. Mike knows Briggs well enough now to predict his moods, or at least how he projects them, to know when he's going to make a joke and when he's going to get up and grab another round. He tells himself it's profiling, learning his subject.

It's a hard façade to maintain, though, at least to himself, when he closes his eyes at night and sees Briggs laughing, sees his lips wrapped around the neck of a bottle, the bob of his throat when he speaks, the lines of his back through those flimsy west coast t-shirts when he stretches. He's dreamed about Briggs' eyes lazily drifting down his body so many times, he's no longer sure if it actually happened or not.

“You okay?” Briggs asks, and Mike realizes he's still staring at Briggs' hands. His eyes are starting to water - he blinks, and slouches back into the cushions.

“Yeah, just. Getting used to it, I guess.”

“I hear you,” Briggs nods, draining his beer in one gulp. Mike knows it's coming before he leans forward and says, “I'm gonna get another round. You want?”

Mike's beer is still half full. He shakes his head. “I'm good.”

There's not much he can glean, from an investigatory standpoint anyways, from watching Briggs walk into the kitchen, his shirt hiked up around his hips, but Mike watches anyways.

He is _so_ screwed.


End file.
